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bleu moon .....
Created on 2004-09-24 01:14:04 (#4631378), last updated 2007-07-26
15 comments received, 239 comments posted
Basic Account [Gift]
48 Journal Entries, 1 Tag, 0 Memories, 0 Virtual Gifts, 3 Userpics
Basic Info| Name: | celeste |
|---|---|
| Birthdate: | 03-25 |
| Location: | Los Angeles, California, United States |
BioI may be blurry on the outside, but inside it’s overwhelmingly clear.
Triumph doesn't know my name, but I'm pretty sure defeat does.
You're all screaming, but there’s nothing to hear.
It’s a self sacrificial game, but we never really knew what the point was.
I walk with a decreasing pace, but you still insist that there’s nothing to fear.
I hate last night, but I don’t miss the kid gloves.
The lamp is too bright, but I pound with anxiety when darkness appears.
The reflection illuminates, but the real image is solely rust.
We squint our eyes in attempt to fake it, but somehow we still make an acquaintance with tears.
I’m backtracking to first dates, but the still shots whisper “lust.”
Your waiting to see the bed made, but you only sleep in it once a year.
There’s a knock at the door, but the visitor isn’t trust.
There’s an abundance of lies, but they seem so sincere.
It’s a sort of disguise, but we beg for its touch.
I tried to draw a straight line, but distraction interfered.
I’m waiting outside, but you can still watch through the window as I violently fade into dust.
Triumph doesn't know my name, but I'm pretty sure defeat does.
You're all screaming, but there’s nothing to hear.
It’s a self sacrificial game, but we never really knew what the point was.
I walk with a decreasing pace, but you still insist that there’s nothing to fear.
I hate last night, but I don’t miss the kid gloves.
The lamp is too bright, but I pound with anxiety when darkness appears.
The reflection illuminates, but the real image is solely rust.
We squint our eyes in attempt to fake it, but somehow we still make an acquaintance with tears.
I’m backtracking to first dates, but the still shots whisper “lust.”
Your waiting to see the bed made, but you only sleep in it once a year.
There’s a knock at the door, but the visitor isn’t trust.
There’s an abundance of lies, but they seem so sincere.
It’s a sort of disguise, but we beg for its touch.
I tried to draw a straight line, but distraction interfered.
I’m waiting outside, but you can still watch through the window as I violently fade into dust.
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 | antiquedesires |  |
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